The Therapist

Expectoration, And The Law Of Unintended Consequences

So I’m skulking around John’s comments section, when Pile On® from the Ebb And Flow Institute raised a question I feel will reverberate throughout the halls of the humor blogs for years before a real answer is achieved: Why are people always holding bloggers responsible for their pie-hole spray?

So many times it has been, that I have logged onto my computer early in the morning, only to have an email from a new reader, claiming that I bear a degree of visceral blame for some inorganic liquid making a forceful exit from their olfactory channels. By the power of my skillful amalgam of imagery and wit, I can, through some external and unconnected power, turn the unwitting milk consumer into an expectorating, cranial Claymore mine—by rhetorically activating the pneumatic turbine that has been a part of their own facial arcana for their entire life.

Even the skilled and circumspect bloggers are subject to the violent onslaught. I myself discovered that Wuzzadem could remotely bilge-pump half my cappuccino through my sniffer, with merely the strategic placement of the word “water” within a larger point.

Liberal Larry told me I owed him a new keyboard with my unindemnified assault of hydraulic rhinoplasty. I understand he is adjusting to his third nostril quite nicely. I wish him the best.

At least Basil is able to confine his reactions to his teeth. That is at least for now. I'll write one smart thing, and that'll be it: snotty catharsis.

The question is, just how dangerous is this phenomenon? Maybe I should I place an indemnity clause on the masthead that says. “Hi, and welcome to The Therapist. If you happen to inadvertently atomize half a Slim Fast meal through the upper half of your head, it’s not my fault. Humor is entirely subjective. Have a nice day.”

It’s the liability that scares me. Sure, it’s all fun and games now, until I have Joseph Merrick serving me papers claiming he’s a circus sideshow because he read the headline, Wireless Internet Program Allows Ethiopians To Google™ Images Of Food, Water, and managed to force gallons of unregulated Perrier out his Cochlear channels. Sure, I’d argue that his damage came from a suppressed sneeze, or thalidomide fallout, but who are they going to believe? The silver-haired smarty-pants or the Elephant Man? You guessed it:

JUDGE: “Pay the cleft, wiseacre!”

ME: “Yes, your Honor. I’ll just leave the name blank and wedge it above your upper plate, ok?”

JUDGE: “Now go, and If this court comes to the understanding that you have written anything else under the Nom De Plume of Donny the Pit Bull, it will be considered contempt. That one alone turned my face into a sputtering, PVC irrigation hemorrhage.”

ME: “That was pretty funny, huh? I. Thought that I’d-----“

JUDGE: “GET OUT! GET OUT OF MY COURTROOM!”

I merely write this as more of a strategic focus; something that perhaps us funny guys could logroll, woodshed, and discuss. Because it may seem like mere whimsy . . . now. McDonald’s thought the same thing, until they had to buy some ambidextrous drive-through nitwit a new crotch and have their car detailed at the same time.

So what I’m saying is: Life is too short for me to pay for your new face, when I’ve got enough problems with mine without a hydraulic nasal aneurysm messing it up even further. If you have problems with such outbursts, then read humorists that aren’t funny, like maybe Al Franken.

posted by Doofus @ 6:50 PM